Gotta Hand it to you


sleeping_beauty_by_jankolas-d4vbi3aAt one time, I had a dream.

When I started the T&T in 2014 on Google- the initial impetus for the blog was to take the teapot (the one on my banner) for walks.  Pose the teapot in interesting places.  Take photographs, and post with story about how I chose said location, what I did, how I got the shot…

Kinda an offshoot of ‘The Red Couch:  A Portrait of America.’

I was hoping, once I’d established there was this weird short round person in the Waukesha/Milwaukee area who’s eccentricity was taking crockery & cameras for a walk, the project would grow into having strangers on the street interact with said teapot.  Photographs would again be taken, and write ups would include a brief interview of my model-of-the-moment.

I even had delusions to morph this into a secondary blog called “Hands across Wisconsin” in which I would focus on the interplay between guest hands and the now ‘ever so famous’ teapot – a kind of travelling – weekend – long-range project.


Now…given that I’m an empathic introvert with a low tolerance for any type of socialization…those ideas got scrapped rather quickly.  I remember taking the teapot out for a walk…once.




So ya’ll got stuck with my internal monologue instead 😀


I’m still obsessed with hands, though…and the Survey Team blog entry brought that idea back into the forefront of my mind.

Why am I obsessed with hands?


No other body part has as much visibility to the individual owner than their hands.  We’re continually touching, moving and manipulating things with our hands.  We bring things closer to our visual range to take a good, hard look.  We bring food or drink to our noses for a deep appreciation of the scent before sliding the morsel into our mouths for an exquisite taste.

We get a more intimate interaction with an object by experiencing its texture, weight, or temperature.  Our fingertips and palms have more nerve endings per square inch than just about any other part of our bodies (oddly enough, only your lips have more), and we use those nerve endings in an almost voyeuristic exploration of our surroundings.

Our hands can even speak when the spoken word cannot be heard – through culturally-accepted gestures.

Our hands are the way we interact with our world…and it shows within a LOT of our references.

“I know this place like I know the back of my hand…”

“He’s wrapped around her little finger…”

“Hey…gimme a hand, will ya?”

A part of me still wants to photographically explore the way we humans use our hands to interact with our world…

maybe I’ll restart that project again…














Dream On


“Sleeping Beauty” by Henry Meynell Rheam

Everyone dreams.

Now, for the purpose of definitively defining what I mean by ‘dream,’ I’m talking about the picture-show that goes on behind our eyelids when we become unconscious in the night.


Or day – depending on your work schedule and/or lifestyle options.

And not the long-range goals or unobtainable objectives you fervently desire to become reality, but just aren’t going to.

World Peace, anyone?

Sometimes, I have REALLY weird dreams.  Or prolific dreams.  Or the dreams that help me sort out a particular, real-life issue.  Or the ones that rouse me from my somnolescent state while it’s still dark out, with my nerves shrieking, my heart pounding, and my breath rasping in my lungs.

Like most people, the bulk of my dreams fade into non-memory once real life re-asserts itself.

But there are some dreams – that stick with you.

One night, I mixed the Rocky Horror Picture Show together with the Lord of the Rings, and did the Time Warp with Transvestite Hobbits on top of a medieval tavern’s bar.

Last night – was not an amusing/joyful/goofy/fun dream…

And I still can’t shake it.

I moved from my little 1 bedroom apartment this month, to a larger 2 bedroom, to accommodate the kid’s need for a bedroom of their own, and to finally be able to have my sweetie and myself under the same roof, so I know this is the real-life situation that the dream was based on.

But still….freaky as fuch…


I was in an apartment, viewing for potential move-in-ability.  It was a ranch-style condo type apartment with its own basement and parking garage.  You parked in either the garage or the driveway, walked a bit, then climbed a flight of stairs to the deck which graced the front door.  The front door opened into the kitchen.  Everything was dark and slightly cobwebby, with an air of abandonment and little trinkets and various junk-objects still in residence from the last tenant.

I had the keys, and there was no landlord or property manager showing me the place, I was just wandering aimlessly from room to room.


“Relativity” by M.C. Escher

Once inside, I couldn’t find the exterior walls.  Room opened into hallway into room into hallway into room.  If I found an occasional window, it opened into another hallway or interior room.

S was with me.  She was (as she usually is) bubbly and loving the weird atmosphere, all the bizarre objects left lying around, and prattling on about how we’d have ALL THIS SPACE!

We found the basement (with no knowledge of finding the stairs).  In the basement were three separate kitchens, still full of pots & pans and antique (dirty, chipped, and/or rusted) dishes.

It reminded me a bit of one of the larger antique stores in the Waukesha area, where they’d set up various living-configurations of furniture, shelves, and purchasable objects in the basement.

Now, I’m back upstairs, and watching the moving truck back into the driveway, men starting to unload furniture I know I didn’t own, but felt ‘mine’ to me.  I started to protest, that I hadn’t signed the lease or paid the rent, but they continued to load my things into this house.

The SQO pops up in my line of sight, concern painted on his features, and questioning why we’re moving here, when we’ve signed the lease on the apartment downtown?

Back in the basement, someone’s cooking something in one of the three kitchens, a lot of banging, clattering, and something really spicy perfuming the air, and I’m in a shadowy side of the basement.  Nothing there.


The space is antiseptically clean.  Not so much as a dust mote in the air.

And the feeling comes.  I’ve been here before.  I’ve never left here.  And I’ve wanted to escape for a lifetime.

Because this place is not natural, and not really on this plane, and there IS no escape.

The lights fade.  Darkness descends.  And a dry, throaty chuckle issues from behind my left shoulder.


Yea – that’s where I woke up, heart threatening to pound itself straight out of my chest.

I HATE the creepy ones…